


Keep You Close to My Heart

by coffeejunkii



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Clint Needs a Hug, Cuddling & Snuggling, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Protective Phil Coulson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2014-05-15
Packaged: 2018-01-24 20:50:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1616636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeejunkii/pseuds/coffeejunkii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They find Clint five days after he goes off-comms in southern Bolivia.</p><p>Phil helps Clint through the aftermath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep You Close to My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by this gorgeous [drawing](http://kingbirdkathy.tumblr.com/post/74723715511/phil-clint-quick-doodle-photo-reference) of Phil and Clint.
> 
> Set somewhere around Agents of SHIELD 1x11, The Magical Place, but there aren't any real spoilers in this story.
> 
> Many thanks to my beta Rurounihime.

They find Clint five days after he goes off-comms in southern Bolivia.

More precisely, Skye finds him. She wasn't supposed to know about the op, but not much at SHIELD stays hidden from her these days. She lays bread crumbs for the analysts to find Clint, too, and Phil calls in favors to get onto the rescue team. His team is only doing recon in Belo Horizonte; they will be fine on their own for a few days.

“Go get your man!” Skye calls out when Phil walks down the Bus' ramp at the rendez-vous point.

The denial is on Phil's lips, but why bother? He smiles at her, trying to exude confidence he doesn't feel. Confidence that they will find Clint alive. He hopes, of course. Desperately. But the op was difficult to begin with, and five days is a long time, especially in the hands of a group that has been dropping bodies indiscriminately for months. Maybe this is the time when Clint's luck has finally run out.

**

In the end, it's the other squad that locates Clint. Alive. Thirty minutes out, minor physical injuries, altered mental state. Phil has to sit down before his legs give out. The cold of the metal crate seeps through his field suit, but he stays put, aware he'd be pacing the length of the cargo bay instead. He has to maintain a semblance of authority, let the other agents believe he's there on Fury's orders.

He's finally going to have that conversation with Clint. The one they should have had before New York, before Tahiti, before this. 

The SUV pulls into the cargo bay. Phil stands. The motor hasn't shut off yet when Clint opens the back door, nearly stumbling over the blanket draped around his shoulders. He shrugs it off, uncaring that he's naked underneath, eyes darting around the bay until they land on Phil. Clint lets out a chocked sob and runs toward him, slamming into Phil's arms with such force that they fall back onto the crate. 

Phil barely manages to keep them upright. Clint is in his lap, both his legs around his waist, arms around his shoulders. His heel is digging into Phil's left hip. 

“I found you,” Clint whispers and tucks his face against Phil's neck. He's trembling. 

“You did. You're safe.” Phil's words come out muffled against Clint's shoulder. He runs a hand over every part of Clint he can reach, needing reassurance, but also checking for injuries. There are bruises, but he seems fine otherwise. His pulse is elevated, but not to a dangerous degree. Clint's state of mind is a different story, but that will take longer to sort out.

Agent Chun approaches them, blanket in hand. Phil takes it from him and wraps it around Clint as best as he can. He manages to cover most of his lower body.

“Sir, we recovered these at the scene.” Agent Chun holds out three vials filled with clear liquid. “We found Agent Barton strapped to a table. Considering the numerous needle marks on his arm, it's likely that he was injected with whatever this is.”

“Understood. Start on the analysis right away. Have Ramirez take the chopper to get a vial to FitzSimmons. They're about three hours from here.”

“Yes, sir.” Chun walks in the direction of the doors leading out of the cargo bay, nearly colliding with the medical team that comes rushing through them, Agent McKenzie in the lead.

“We need to take a look at Agent Barton,” McKenzie calls out. “He's been exposed to an unknown drug.”

Clint flinches at the loud voice, his fingers digging into Phil's shoulder. Phil settles a hand at his nape, stroking over the skin there until Clint's grip loosens. “Can it wait a little longer?” While Phil is keen to find out what happened to Clint, Chun's report suggests that dealing with Medical is the last thing Clint needs right now. 

“I'm afraid not. Protocol states—”

“Agent McKenzie, I—”

“I really prefer Doctor McKenzie, Agent Coulson.” 

Phil ignores whatever power play McKenzie is trying to pull. “I've known and worked with Agent Barton for over a decade. You can wait until he's over the most severe stage of shock. He's not seriously injured.”

McKenzie gives him a doubtful look. “Frankly, that's outside your area of expertise.” He steps closer and grasps Clint's shoulder. “Agent Barton, if you could—”

Clint pulls away from McKenzie's touch, pressing himself further to Phil. “Can't. Please. Hav't'stay close.”

McKenzie doesn't let go, and Clint becomes more agitated trying to get away while also trying to stay close to Phil. He attempts to wrench his arm out of McKenzie's grasp, nearly sliding off Phil's lap.

Phil's had enough of this bullshit. “Step away, Agent.”

McKenzie blithely ignores the order.

Phil looks at Clint for only a split-second, but it's long enough for a syringe to appear in McKenzie's hand. Before Phil can protest, the needle is in Clint's arm. Clint lets out a sharp yelp before the fight goes out of him and he slumps against Phil.

“You didn't leave me a choice, Agent Coulson.” McKenzie signals to his team, who bring over a gurney.

The anger burns hard and fast. It takes all of Phil's training not to scream at McKenzie. “Perhaps not. You did, however, just sedate an agent against his will and against my recommendation, which is based on my knowledge of Agent Barton. Knowledge which you don't possess. Frankly, I wonder how much field experience you have. Perhaps two, three missions? Let me assure you that this will be your last. I hear there's a housing boom in Anchorage. You might want to look into that.”

McKenzie looks stumped. The rest of his medical team gently lowers Clint onto the gurney.

“One more thing.” Phil places his hand on Clint's wrist. “You will run standard tests on Agent Barton to find out what happened to him. Nothing more. He will remain under my supervision until we get to HQ. Are we clear?”

McKenzie nods.

**

Phil flips through the preliminary report again. He's turning pages with one hand, the file balanced on his knees. His other hand is on Clint's forearm. It didn't take long to figure out that Clint's heart rate spikes when they aren't in direct contact. The awareness of Phil's touch punches through the sedation, testament to the rather intricate drug in Clint's system.

Phil drops the file on the floor. He's been up for thirty-six hours and the exhaustion is making itself known. Five minutes. He deserves five minutes. 

He drags the chair closer to the bed and rests his head next to Clint's. He brings a hand up to Clint's cheek. The stubble is rough under his palm, but he brushes his fingers across Clint's skin anyway, hoping the touch will bring some comfort.

“You'll be okay.”

**

“Phil?”

His eyelids weigh a ton and he finds himself unable to lift them. Familiar calloused hands stroke over the side of his face. “Yeah.”

“Phil?” There's more agitation in Clint's voice.

“'m fine.” His eyes finally cooperate. Clint's face is only a few inches away. He looks worried. “I promise I'm okay.”

“Where are we?”

Phil's back aches from having fallen asleep hunched over. “Evac plane, en route to HQ.”

“Evac?”

A sharp pain lances through Phil's hips. “Yes. I'll explain, but my back is killing me. I'm going to stretch for just a second, okay?” He straightens. 

Clint's hands curl into the sleeves of Phil's field suit. The heart monitor beeps faster. 

“I'm not going anywhere. I promise.” Phil holds Clint's gaze as he stands up. He closes his fingers around Clint's. “Can you let go for a moment? Please?”

Clint lets go. The fear in his eyes is plain to see.

Phil stretches his arms over his head until the pain in his back subsides. Clint takes his hand as soon as it's in reach again.

“What's happening to me?” 

Phil sits back down. His back immediately lets him know what a bad idea that is. “You were exposed to an experimental drug. What do you remember?”

Clint frowns. Phil wonders if the drug has effects on Clint's memory, or if it's regular trauma. It's a sad testament to their lives that trauma is something he can classify as normal.

“I don't remember much. They kept me under a lot. But they said that—that—” Clint's breath hitches. “That I could be a tool if they managed to calibrate me right.”

The words slice through Phil. Not again. Clint's been subjected to this too often; it's remarkable that Clint is lucid enough to have a conversation. It's a testament to his strength and his stubbornness. His will to survive. All reasons why Phil loves him and why he wishes he could protect Clint better. It makes him wish once again that he was still working with Clint. He likes his team; they're wonderful and they've given him renewed focus. But he needs to be sure that someone is looking out for Clint as well. 

Phil laces their fingers together. “We've only done a very preliminary analysis so far, but what you said matches our findings. It renders you compliant—not mind-control, necessarily, but more of an exploitation of any pre-existing compliance with authority.”

Clint's eyes dart away. “I feel lost. I don't know what I'm supposed to do, or—I don't know, it's like there's something in my mind, but I can't tell what it is, and—” He blinks rapidly and brings a hand to his eyes. 

Phil pulls Clint into an awkward embrace. “I'm sorry.” Clint curls against him. “We think the drug didn't work quite as they wanted it to. I have FitzSimmons on the case. They'll figure it out, I promise.”

“I just want you to stay with me,” Clint whispers.

“I'm not going anywhere.”

**

The chirping wakes Phil. He drags his StarkPad from the bedside table. It's a request for a video call from FitzSimmons. 

Phil struggles upright. Clint grumbles next to him, but doesn't wake up. At least Phil's back isn't killing him this time around, validating his decision to lie down with Clint. Phil hesitates for a moment before accepting the call. Chances are they'll have him on a big screen, Clint clearly visible behind him. 

It doesn't matter. The room they're in right now is surveilled, too. There are already hours of video footage of him and Clint sharing this bed. Besides, even McKenzie had agreed that it's best for Clint's health that Phil stick to his side as closely as possible. The convoluted feelings Phil has for Clint—they have for each other—might complicate things for him, but not for anyone else.

Phil accepts the call. It's good to see Fitz, Simmons, and Skye. 

“Good morning, sir.” Simmons is her usual cheerful self. “We have an update.”

Phil has no idea what time of day it is. A quick look at his watch reveals that it's nearly 5am. Morning it is, then. This also means they're about an hour out of New York. “I'm listening.”

“The initial analysis was a bit rough around the edges, but we've managed to refine it, and, well, the drug alters brain chemistry in such a way that the subject is fully aware of their actions but still remains receptive to commands. It's all quite exciting, really.” She looks a little flushed, pride showing in her face. Fitz nudges her, and she sobers. “Of course, the situation isn't exciting for Agent Barton. Obviously. Especially because—” her voice softens. “It seems that pre-existing trauma or past abuse may influence how the subject reacts to the drug.”

Phil struggles to keep a positive expression. He wonders if May mentioned anything about Clint, or if they are only sharing all the information they managed to extract via their analysis. “Good work, FitzSimmons. What do you suggest as a further course of action?”

Fitz pulls up a chart. “Based on our calculations, the drug should be out of Agent Barton's system within forty-eight hours. There shouldn't be any lingering consequences.”

Phil nods, trying to keep his relief in check. The past few hours had indicated that Clint's condition was stable, but it's good to have confirmation from a trusted source. “So he won't need any further medical intervention?”

“Only whatever is required to address his other injuries, which are minor,” Simmons replies. “Otherwise he should be right as rain.”

Phil allows himself a smile. “Thank you. That's very good news.”

FitzSimmons look pleased with themselves. “We have a few additional experiments running,” Fitz starts.

“Time-sensitive,” Simmons adds.

“And maybe a little unstable. But Ward's keeping an eye on them,” Fitz elaborates.

“So we should really get back to the lab, sir.” Simmons gathers her notes and tablet.

“Of course,” Phil says. “Keep me updated on whatever you find.”

They turn toward the stairs, already engrossed in new theories. Skye steps forward. “Hey, AC.”

“Skye.”

“How are you holding up?” 

Her genuine concern forces Phil to be honest. “It's been a long few days.” He settles his hand on Clint's thigh. Skye's eyes track the movement. “But he's alive. That's the most important thing.”

“Yeah.” A brief smile flashes across her face. “I'm glad.” She gestures at Clint. “For both of you.”

Phil knows exactly what she's implying. He glances down at his lap, oddly touched by the sentiment. He still hasn't figured out how she managed to guess the depth of his feelings for Clint from the approximately three times he's mentioned him in her presence, but then Skye is unusually perceptive. And she knows about the value of being given more time, more chances with people.

“You need to tell him,” she says softly.

Phil meets her gaze. “It's on my to-do list.”

“She's right.” Melinda steps out of a shadowy corner. Skye doesn't seem surprised to see her, which means that she's been there for the entire briefing. “Don't put it off any longer.”

Phil wants to protest, but they're both right. He has been putting this off for far too long. “It seems that Clint and I will be spending a lot of time together in close quarters in the near future. I'm sure an opportunity will present itself.”

“See to it that it does.” Melinda hits the disconnect button.

Phil stares at the “call ended” message until he has his thoughts in a semblance of order. He checks his email and finds FitzSimmons' report on the drug, cc-ed to Medical in HQ. Phil doesn't doubt that Medical will insist on checking Clint over nevertheless. Ward sent an update on the recon mission, which is going as planned.

Pushing the StarkPad back onto the bedside table, Phil lies back down. He turns on his side to face Clint, who has curled in on himself. Phil fits himself to Clint as best as he can.

**

Medical is even more of a madhouse than it usually is. They're treating twenty agents who have been exposed to an unknown gas and are consequently being kept in isolation. Ten minutes after Phil and Clint arrive, a call comes in informing them of five agents in critical condition after a bomb blast, with an additional three suffering from severe injuries. Doctor Wu cuts her exam of Clint short, ordering another round of IV fluids for him, and drags McKenzie with her to set up triage for the incoming agents.

They leave Phil and Clint in a bed that's too small for them, separated from the main corridor by only a flimsy curtain. Clint's awake but seems dazed. While Phil is sitting up in an effort to keep an eye on their surroundings, Clint has burrowed into the thin blanket. It's not a good situation by any means. It gets worse when the transport from the bomb blast arrives. The entire corridor erupts into chaos and yelling, people rushing back and forth, and the glimpses Phil catches through the gap in the curtain makes his stomach turn. He makes sure that his body blocks Clint's line of sight.

As the noise increases, Clint becomes more agitated. He hides his face against Phil's hip. “Why don't they let us go?” 

“I'm not sure.” Phil reaches down to run his fingers through Clint's hair. “They might want to run more tests.”

“Thought I was okay?”

Phil had given him a brief run-down of FitzSimmons' findings during the car ride to HQ. “You will be. Promise. But you know how Medical can be.”

“Assholes.”

“That's right.” Clint's profanity is a welcome sign of normality. “I'll get you out of here as soon as I can.”

An hour goes by without anyone looking in on them. Phil's had enough. He texts Sitwell to inform him that he's checking himself and Clint out of Medical, by which he means that they leave without telling anyone. It's not like anyone notices. Sitwell can deal with Medical, Fury, and whoever else might have an interest in Clint's condition. They'll be at Clint's apartment, and anyone who wants to talk to them or take another look at Clint can damn well make their way out to Brooklyn.

It's easy enough to sweet-talk Monica in Requisitions into giving him a car without any of the necessary paperwork. Phil probably shouldn't be driving—he hasn't really slept for nearly two days, after all—but traffic is light enough, and the route to Clint's place is ingrained in his memory. Clint nods off. Phil wonders if he should be concerned that Clint is sleeping so much. It's been less than a day since they found him, though, and it's possible that Clint hadn't gotten any rest in the days prior. 

At least he relaxes once they enter his apartment. “Thanks for bringing me home,” he says quietly. He takes Phil's hand and tugs. “C'mon. Bed.”

“Shower first?” They both reek. Not to mention their clothes.

Clint sniffs himself and makes a face. “Yeah.”

Phil wastes about ten seconds pondering the potential for awkwardness in sharing a shower and then pulls himself together. Clint needs him to stay close. Nothing awkward about that.

They get into the shower together and start scrubbing themselves down. The hot water feels amazing; Phil realizes that he's been tense himself. He closes his eyes and blocks out everything aside from the water running down his body. Everything will be fine. Clint's going to get through this. They'll get through this together.

After the shower, Phil can barely keep his eyes open. He accepts a pair of boxers and a T-shirt from Clint and watches him slip into the similar set of clothes. They get into bed. Clint pushes into Phil's space immediately, draping himself over him. It already feels familiar to settle down to sleep with Clint, to feel his warmth, the rise and fall of his chest. Phil has thought about this before—what it would be like to come home with Clint after a mission. To know that they've returned from yet another insane op, both still alive. To crawl into bed together and sleep for a million years, knowing that they're safe. There's usually sex later, but Phil steers his thoughts away from that part of his daydreams. He's glad enough to have this, for now, drug-induced as it may be.

** 

It's dark outside when Phil wakes up. 9:14pm, according to his phone. Clint's still asleep, which is Phil's chance to make it to the bathroom without upsetting him. But Clint stirs as soon as he pulls away.

“I'll be back in a minute. Will you be okay?”

Clint nods, half-asleep.

Phil leaves the door cracked open and hurries as much as he can, but once he returns Clint's wide-awake and trying to keep a lid on the panic showing in his eyes.

“It's okay,” Phil murmurs as he settles back into bed. He turns onto his side and pulls Clint close.

“Can't help it. Sorry.”

“I know.” Phil strokes over Clint's back. “No need to apologize.” He keeps up the steady up-and-down until Clint begins to relax. “How are you feeling?”

Clint shrugs.

“Are you in any pain?”

“No.”

Well, that's something at least. “How about some food?”

Clint nods. “Pancakes?”

Phil reaches for his phone. “Delivery?” He sits up, careful to keep his posture open and inviting. Clint follows suit, slouching against Phil's chest.

“Diner on the corner. Can you get blueberry pancakes?”

“Whatever you want.”

Phil ends up ordering pancakes, hash browns, scrambled eggs, orange juice—some sort of fruit should be part of this meal—and, despite the late hour, coffee. There are probably new reports from his team about the situation in Belo Horizonte and he has to draft his own report about the rescue mission.

They move to the couch once the food arrives, bodies pressed close together. Clint inhales his eggs and most of the juice; it's a good sign. He looks more alert, and his mind seems a little clearer than before even though he still seeks Phil's closeness.

“I'm glad it's you,” Clint says as he divides his last pancake into bite-size bits. “That I imprinted on or whatever the fuck this is.”

The thought has crossed Phil's mind, too. Not out of jealousy of anyone else getting to be so close to Clint, but because he knows Clint and all the complicated issues he has about trust. They're not too far removed from Phil's own, after all. If Clint had latched onto someone he barely knows, he probably would have struggled against the effects of the drug instead of giving in to it. At least Phil can be sure that he isn't experiencing severe inner turmoil because they're forced into close proximity. “I'm glad to be here with you.”

Clint forks two pieces of pancake into his mouth. “Doesn't your team need you?”

That's a lot more direct than Clint has been with him in a long time, especially about the team. It catches Phil off-guard. “They're fine. They're on a recon mission. Nothing serious.” He pushes his eggs around in the take-out box, trying to decide if he should say anything else about how he feels about his team and all the time he spends away from HQ. From Clint. While they never openly discussed their feelings for one another, they lived in one another's pockets in the year before New York. Especially in New Mexico. There wasn't much to do there outside of work and they gravitated toward one another. Being away from Clint so much has been strange, but it's only one strange thing in a very long list of bizarre changes in his life. “I'll stay as long as—” He was going to say _necessary_ , but that seems too impersonal. “As long as you need me.”

Clint looks at him, and Phil lets him. He hopes that Clint can see he means that. Clint studies him, longing in his eyes. It's probably drug-induced, but it's not the first time Clint's looked at him like that. 

Clint mumbles “Thank you” as he sets the empty take-out box on the coffee table. He thumbs over the injection marks on his arm. “Guess I should be glad I don't remember much.”

Phil knows a thing or two about having his memories wrenched away, so the easy affirmation won't come even though he agrees that in this case, it is better that Clint doesn't remember. At least not yet. “I'm sure we'll be able to reconstruct what happened. A team stayed behind to do a thorough assessment of the site.”

“Right.”

Phil stops the motion of Clint's hand by folding his fingers over it. “You'll be fine.” It's something he's been telling himself over and over again for months. He needs to believe it's true for both of them. 

Clint looks down at their entwined hands. “I wish people would stop fucking with my mind.”

“I know.” Even on that short sentence, his voice breaks. It's not fair. And what a dumb thought that is. Phil would like to believe in fairness, but he's seen too much to still have that much faith. No, rather, he wishes that life would be kinder to Clint. After everything, Clint deserves that much.

“They're going to make me go through another psych eval. Did you know they made me do six months of therapy after New York?”

“No.” It doesn't surprise Phil. He probably only got out of that because they took away so many memories. “Did it help?”

“Dunno.”

It breaks Phil's heart to know how very alone Clint probably was during that time. Perhaps he had Natasha around, but she isn't exactly great at comfort. “Clint.”

“Yeah?” He glances up.

“I hope that—I need you to know that you can always talk to me. If that's something you want.” 

Clint tucks himself closer to Phil's side. “Yeah. I do. I wasn't sure if—I wasn't sure.”

Phil lets go of Clint’s hand so he can gather him into his arms. “Anytime.”

“Same goes for you.”

That makes Phil smile. There have been too many times when he's picked up his phone, on the verge of calling Clint, and then talked himself out of it. No more of that. “Promise.”

** 

They're sitting on the couch the next evening when Phil realizes that they probably don't need to be this close any longer. Close as in being tucked in the same corner of the couch, Clint leaning against his chest, and both of their feet propped up on the coffee table. 

“What?” Clint asks, eyes flicking away from the movie and up to Phil. 

He must have tensed. “I was thinking about all the progress you made today.” Over the course of the day, Clint had become increasingly fine with merely having Phil within his line of sight instead of being in physical contact with him. “So you shouldn't feel obligated to—” Phil struggles to find the right words. “It's alright if you don't feel like being glued to my side anymore.”

Clint expression lets Phil know exactly how bad his attempt at humor failed. But Clint straightens regardless. He puts some space between them. “Right.”

They continue watching the movie, in which things blow up in five-minute intervals. Clint settles into the other corner of the couch, his feet barely touching Phil's thighs. It takes Phil another two explosions to rest his hand on Clint's ankles. Clint's feet press more firmly against his legs in return.

This is good. Clint gets the contact he needs, but not more than he wants.

Phil gets drawn into the movie through the sheer stupidity of the supposed hero's actions. If that guy were a real spy, he'd be dead by now.

He turns to Clint, ready to unleash a rant on how you actually dismantle a biometric security system, when he takes in Clint's posture: arms hugged close to his chest, drawn-up knees, a determined expression on his face.

“You okay?” Phil shifts his hand to just above Clint's knee.

“Fine.”

“You don't look fine.” He keeps his voice low, not wanting Clint to think of this as an accusation, but instead an invitation to share what's wrong.

Clint looks at him, and the anxiety is plain to see.

Phil feels like an idiot. Clint might be better, but the drug is still in his system. Still working on him and his perception of the world. And Phil pushed him away. “Why didn't you say anything?”

Clint's gaze returns to the TV. “I'm managing. It's fine.”

Phil takes a moment to stow away the anger threatening to rise. Anger mostly at himself. He should know better. Clint doesn't expect to get things he needs, let alone things he wants. His hesitation to ask for something that he needs is an indication that the drug is on its way out; twelve hours ago, he wouldn't have left Phil's side. Phil should have anticipated that Clint would fight the drug's effects as soon as he was able to.

“You don't need to manage when I'm right here.”

“Don't wanna bother you,” Clint mumbles.

“You're not bothering me. Come on.”

Phil leans back into his corner of the couch, and Clint slowly unfolds himself and moves over. Having Clint's weight against him is comforting. Phil pulls him closer. “I'm sorry.”

“Not your fault.”

Phil holds back a sigh. “I'm not good with personal relationships.”

Clint laughs. Phil can feel it reverberate in his own chest. “I suck at them, so you're ahead of me there.” His fingers dance across the back of Phil's hand before settling. “This is good. Okay? It's not weird or too much or whatever you thought.”

Phil smiles. “Okay.”

**

The next morning, Phil takes a shower by himself. It's a test they both agree on. He leaves the door ajar and takes less than ten minutes total in the bathroom. When he comes back into the bedroom, Clint is exactly where he was before: sitting cross-legged on the bed, absorbed in a game on his phone. No trace of anxiety.

This is excellent, but Phil feels sad nevertheless. It's been nice having a taste of what it might be like to—

He holds the thought. He should tell Clint. He promised himself. He promised Skye. Yet, telling Clint feels as impossible as it has always been.

**

Their ability to be apart increases throughout the morning. They spend five minutes in adjacent rooms, then ten minutes on opposite ends of the apartment. Clint feels fine both times.

Even though Clint truly doesn't need Phil's physical closeness anymore, he still reaches out. His hand lingers on Phil's hip when he gets a glass out of a cabinet behind Phil. His thumb brushes over Phil's wrist when they talk over lunch. An afternoon nap sounds like a good idea, and Clint slouches against Phil on the couch, falling asleep instantly and drooling on his shoulder after a few minutes.

Even if it is the vestiges of the drug pushing at Clint to seek Phil out, there is more at stake here. It's not just the drug. It's something that Clint wants.

The insight is heady, and Phil isn't entirely sure what to do with it.

**

In the late afternoon, they spend an hour in different rooms. When Clint is still fine, they both conclude that the drug has run its course.

“Probably should get Medical to confirm this,” Clint says, not looking too thrilled with the idea.

“Definitely. I'll drive you.”

**

A nurse draws Clint's blood and tells them to wait in the exam room, assuring them that this will be a priority analysis.

Phil sits down next to Clint on the exam table, their bodies aligned comfortably. Two hours pass as they chat about past missions and other SHIELD gossip, all of it tinged with uncertain anticipation.

Dr. Wu comes to speak to them at last. She confirms that all traces of the drug seem to be gone from Clint's system. “I'd still like you to remain in the area, Agent Coulson, just in case there's a relapse.”

“I need to check in with my team, but I don't anticipate any problems.” Last Phil heard, the team had wrapped the op and was on the way back to the States to pick him up.

“Agent Barton, you still need to be debriefed. And then Dr. Muehler would like to speak to you.”

Muehler is one of SHIELD's therapists. Phil has spoken to him once or twice on a mandatory eval. The man is capable; kind, even. Yet Clint's shoulders are set in a tense line.

“Sure thing,” Clint replies and slides off the exam table.

Phil stands as well. “I should be on my way.”

Clint turns toward him. “Thanks again for staying with me.” It's almost a whisper, as if he only wants Phil to hear these words.

“I'm glad I could help.”

They end up in an awkward handshake-hug-hybrid that promises too much and provides too little. Clint steps back, looking down at his boots. Phil leaves with a nod at Dr. Wu and hurries through HQ. He doesn't want to speak to anyone.

**

When he gets to his apartment, he's at a loss. He rented this place on their last stopover in the city, wanting to have a home base. Except these rooms don't feel like home; that's the Bus now. At least this is only a short-term lease. Most of his things are still in boxes and can be easily moved into storage. There might even be enough space on the Bus. It's not like he owns much.

The first thing he does is turn on the TV. The silence is too overbearing.

**

The text message alert jostles Phil out of deep sleep. As he fumbles for his phone, a second ping indicates another message.

It's 3:32am. The texts are from Clint. _I'm outside your door._ And the second one: _Can you let me in?_ As Phil reads, a third note arrives: _Didn't want to freak you out by ringing the doorbell so late._

Worry spikes in Phil, undefined but sharp. The adrenaline sweeps away the sluggishness from his brain. He's out of bed and across his apartment in record time. He opens the door, relaxing a fraction when Clint appears to be unharmed. He looks exhausted, though, wearing boots, pajama pants, and a gray hoodie. Phil steps aside to let Clint in and closes the door behind him.

Clint stops right inside, close to Phil. “Sorry for showing up here so late, but...I haven't been able to sleep since the drug wore off.” His eyes flick down to the floor. “Since you left.”

“That's alright.” Phil's felt Clint's absence in the last day, too. Not to the point that he hasn't been sleeping, but he's missed the warm presence at his side while watching TV in the evening. 

Clint tugs his left sleeve over his hand, thumb worrying along the frayed edge. He shuffles closer—almost close enough to touch. “I was wondering if I could stay here. Just for tonight. I wouldn't ask, but I'm so tired and...” He shakes his head.

Phil wonders if the drug wasn't entirely out of Clint's system when he left. If he should have stayed longer. Maybe they missed something. “Of course.”

Clint sways, his cloth-covered hand bumping against Phil's wrist. Without thinking, Phil draws Clint into his arms. Clint holds on, his face pressed to Phil's neck. He exhales; it's as if he's been holding himself together to get here, to Phil, and now it's okay to give in to his fatigue.

Phil closes his eyes. Clint is warm and familiar. They fit together—not just standing here, but in other ways. Clint is one of the few people Phil doesn't mind having around at all times. Perhaps it's a result of how much time they've spent together over the years. They've learned how to put up with one another's quirks. But it's more than being able to put up with one another. Phil wants Clint around. 

And yet he keeps letting Clint go. Perhaps it's time to stop doing that.

Phil draws out of the embrace, but he keeps a hand curled around Clint's arm. “Let's go to bed.” He pitches his voice low and hopes Clint understands that this isn't merely a polite offer, but that there's intent behind it. It's an invitation to fall asleep together much in the way they did when Clint was under the influence, except now it's a choice they make.

Clint looks at him with cautious hope. “Alright.”

Phil slides his hand down Clint's arm until his palm meets Clint's. Strong fingers enclose Phil's hand immediately. It's a small gesture, but it's the most overt acknowledgment of how they feel for each other that they've allowed themselves so far.

Phil turns to lead them to the bedroom, but Clint tugs at his hand. “Wait. I...” He steps right into Phil's space and kisses him, soft and slow.

When he pulls away too soon, Phil says, “Do that again.” 

Clint smiles into the kiss, which is far less hesitant. His hand slides over Phil's hip with a firm grasp, and if they weren't both so tired, this could easily tip over into something heated. With a nuzzle to Phil's cheek, Clint pulls away. “Alright. Lead the way.”

They cross the short hallway in a few steps. Clint kicks off his boots and drags the hoodie over his head. They've shared enough beds over the years to have designated sides. Phil moves to the left, and Clint joins him from the right. 

Clint moves close, leaving only a few inches between them, but he turns away from Phil and curls around his pillow. Phil noticed this position while he was at Clint's apartment. It's so different from how Clint used to fall asleep, at least when he felt safe. During ops, Phil often woke up near the edge of the bed, pushed there by the sprawl of Clint's limbs.

He turns onto his side, studying the tight curve of Clint's back. It can't be comfortable. “You know you're safe here, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Stark put in the security system. He insisted after he found out that I was...still around. Said that whatever SHIELD had installed was laughable.” Phil takes a chance and places his hand on Clint's back, just below his nape. Muscles contract under his palm, tense for a moment before they relax. “Bulletproof windows. Hidden exit at the back of the closet. Weapons stash in each room.” He digs his thumb into Clint's skin, pleased to hear a small sigh. “It's as secure as a regular apartment can be.”

It takes Clint a while to answer. Phil's hand moves along his neck and shoulder, a slow press-and-release. 

Clint rolls onto his back, right into Phil's body. He doesn't move away. “I know it's safe. That's why I came here. I've been having trouble sleeping since Loki.”

“That's a long time.” Phil's only been battling bad sleep for a few months; he can't imagine two years of not being able to fall asleep, or waking up from nightmares that squeeze your chest so tight that you can barely get air into your lungs.

“It got better. Natasha slept with me—slept in my bed for three months. That helped. Having someone there. It wasn't so bad after that, especially when I was exhausted. But this drug...” Clint turns a little more toward Phil, and the next words come out muffled. “It brought it all back.”

Phil brings his arm around Clint's waist. “You've never mentioned this before.”

“Seemed like you had enough on your plate, what with coming back from the dead and all that.”

Trust Clint to turn trauma into an off-hand remark. “Yeah. I guess I did.”

“'S alright. This is good. Helpful.” Clint shifts the rest of the way onto his side, coming into alignment with Phil. 

Their legs bump awkwardly until Clint pushes his knee between Phil's. It's comfortable, and Phil thinks he can probably fall asleep like this, but then the arm that's pinned between their bodies begins to tingle. “Sorry,” Phil mumbles has he pulls it free. “I was losing feeling in it.”

Clint moves back over to his side. “That's okay. It's enough that I know you're there.”

There's a pang in Phil's chest. “I'd rather you were a little closer. If you don't mind.”

The look in Clint's eyes says he doesn't mind at all. “How do we do this? I haven't—I don't really—it's been a while since someone wanted that with me.”

“Likewise.” Phil tries to recall how they fell asleep when they were cooped up at Clint's place, but all he remembers is getting into bed and drifting off as soon as Clint pushed into his personal space. “You can always spoon me,” he teases, unprepared for the entirely serious expression on Clint's face.

“Can I?” Clint's hand comes to rest on Phil's hip.

Phil turns, and Clint follows, bent knees fitting behind Phil's, and one arm coming around to hold Phil close. Clint's breath hits Phil's neck, fast at first, then slowing. Phil closes his eyes and sinks back into Clint's warmth. 

He's never walking away from this again.


End file.
